Chapter Eight
Eight
The atrium is empty. But the door directly across from me is ajar. I’ve never seen it open before. I glance from it to the stairs that spiral up the tower.
I take the stairs, two at a time. Based on the noises, either Lord Fenwood just left with a group of people or that group came here to murder him for some horrible deed he didn’t think was worth telling me about.
I emerge onto a loft, bracing myself to see the lord or Oren spread out in a pool of his own blood.
But the room is empty; no one is here, living or dead.
However, it looks as if it has been ransacked.
Cabinet doors are open. Boxes are on the floor, their contents spilling out.
This room is some kind of workshop. There are paints, some splattered on the floor, some still in jars.
There are herbs drying overhead. Their aromas mix with the scent of wood shavings and a metallic, sharp tang of blood that I can’t find the source of.
I want to spend hours slowly inspecting this personal space of Lord Fenwood’s. But there’s no time.
Back downstairs, I head through the door to the right wing. It’s the mirror of mine, though instead of a study, there is another workroom. Nowhere do I see the copious tools a hunter would require. In fact, the only weapons I see are a few bejeweled daggers. One is missing from a row of pegs.
He did say he hunted fae. Or was that a clever lie to a gullible woman he knew wouldn’t question him? I slam my hands on one of the countertops, and jars and vessels clank together as I curse under my breath. Fae hunter? I should’ve known better than to think such a thing was real.
My sisters were right. I don’t know anything about this man. But I will before dawn, I vow to myself.
At the end of this hall, there is, unlike in mine, a final door.
It leads to a set of stone stairs that wind down into darkness.
A rush of cool air from those mysterious depths reminds me that I’m still in a robe and nightgown.
I shift my weight from foot to foot with restless energy, debating what to do next.
Wherever the lord has gone and whomever he’s gone with, whoever might have taken him, they can’t be too far ahead.
But I’ve already wasted time looking through the various rooms. If I go back and change, I’ll lose them for sure.
I let out a string of curses and rush back to the workroom to get a lantern, which I light using a nearby tinderbox.
When I am standing once more on the precipice of the stairs, I draw my robe tighter around me, give myself a slow count of ten to find every scrap of bravery I have ever possessed, then start down.
The spiral stairway wraps around itself two, four, twelve times.
At the bottom is a long tunnel, cold and damp.
My light stretches only a few steps ahead of me.
I feel the darkness as though it were a living monstrosity, whispering threats from the unknown.
My hand shakes slightly, rattling the lantern.
The flame inside flickers. I grab my wrist with my other hand and hold it steady.
The last thing I want is for my only light to go out.
The tunnel looks like one of the oldest parts of the castle, judging from the stone and mortar, but at no point am I nervous about my safety within it. There are fresh support beams across the ceiling. Someone has been keeping up this ancient passageway. The question is why.
In the distance, a silvery archway is illuminated by moonlight—a way out.
As I approach, I hear voices drifting through the woods.
I slow my pace and set down my lantern. The passage has been sloping upward, so the floor is no longer puddled with water.
I notice several sets of footprints. I can’t tell how many people came ahead of me because it would be impossible to walk this passage any way but single file.
But there are enough wet footprints that I’m worried, because I’m definitely outnumbered.
I should turn back. I know I should. But now curiosity has a hold of me and keeps pushing me forward. I came hunting for the truth. I won’t leave until I have it.
The tunnel opens into the forest. I shiver, though I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the immediate feeling of being exposed. Every shadowy tree looks down on me with anticipation, pale moonlight winking like a thousand-eyed beast in the canopy overhead.
Voices stop me from retreating back into the tunnel and running for the safety of the manor.
There’s a worn stone path that winds through the trees, fighting against the forest undergrowth.
The voices are coming from the direction the path leads.
I follow along on the edge of it and soon see orange flickering.
I crouch low and move with as much stealth as I can muster, getting close enough that I can hear what these people are saying, but I don’t understand any of the words.
They speak in a strange tongue I don’t recognize.
Have these people taken Lord Fenwood? Or are they his accomplices? His letter sounded like he knew he would do something tonight that would get him killed. That’s what keeps pushing me forward. I need the truth from this man, just once. And, maybe I don’t want to see him be met with a horrible end.
I come up against a tree and place my back to it. The people are chanting now. I can see shadowy outlines of them dancing in the firelight. I sink onto the blanket of pine needles that covers the forest floor. Crawling as slowly as possible, I creep up to the top of a small ridge.
The path that stretched out from the tunnel snakes through the forest and into a basin. Trees are perched on the ridge all around the circular area. In the little valley, there are four people.
No, not people—monsters.
One man has horns like a stag’s sticking up from his head.
He keeps running his fingers through the fire, miraculously unburned, while chanting low and thick.
Another man and a woman dance around him.
They have both stripped down to their smallclothes and their bare skin is completely covered in bright purple paint, a pattern of swirls, dots, and lines slithering across with an almost hypnotic effect as they move.
The woman has hair that’s deep red, dark brown skin, and blue wings like a butterfly.
The man is pale and has ram’s horns curling on either side of his face and strong arms that end in bony claws.
I shudder violently at the sight. They sing and squeal and cry out to the moon above as it stares down at what I can only describe as some kind of dark ritual.
These creatures are fae. No wonder Lord Fenwood thought he would die tonight. I’m certainly not safe. I should leave before they spot me. But the fourth person’s presence is what keeps me here.
Standing opposite the man chanting and playing with the fire is an old gentleman with beady black eyes and gray, slicked-back hair.
Oren. He is half naked, his chest painted as well.
Unfurled from his back are two pale gossamer wings, like those of a dragonfly.
My throat goes dry and gummy. The slight hunch to his back… I let a fae into my bedroom.
Lord Fenwood let a fae into his home. He must have found out Oren’s true nature and planned on confronting him tonight. I dig my fingers into the dirt and pine needles, resisting the urge to scream in frustration.
Confronting Oren to expose him as a fae would be suicide; the lord must have known this. Hence the letter. I think of his strong arms protecting me. What if he’s done this to keep me safe? He should have just sent Oren away.
Before I can take any foolish actions, all four people raise their arms and faces to the heavens above and let out primal screams that come to an abrupt stop.
Slowly, reverently, they all turn to face the ridgeline opposite the path.
Standing on a boulder, looming over the group, is a man I can only presume is their leader.
He wears a cape trimmed heavily with wildflowers.
His broad chest is bare. Little more than a loincloth is draped around his waist, and it does nothing to hide the bulging muscles of his thighs.
Across his body, lines and symbols have been drawn in luminescent paint.
Draped behind him, dragging on the ground as he walks, are tattered crimson wings.
He exudes an air of power and authority. I am as entranced by him as I am terrified. He’s like a poisonous draft that promises to be the most delicious thing in the world—you’d knowingly risk death just for a taste.
The leader lifts up a small item with both hands as he descends to the bonfire in the glade. I can’t make out what he’s holding until he’s closer to the firelight. My heart drops out of my chest and rolls to a stop at this man’s feet. Lord Fenwood is dead. He must be.
Because this fae monster holds my mother’s book. The same book that Lord Fenwood asked for as my dowry.
Heart racing, I bend my knees so I can get a better look. No, it can’t be, please let it be anything but that. But sure enough, the book has the familiar markings on its front and spine.
The four other fae walk slowly around the fire and each one touches the man, chanting, whispering.
They caress him like lovers, like sycophants, like supplicants who see him as a god.
The leader comes to a stop and opens the book.
His lips move, but I can’t hear the words he says.
At the same time, the other individuals begin dancing once more.
The pale blond chops off a braid from behind his ram’s horn and throws it into the fire.
The antlered man rips a piece of his clothing and the fire quickly reduces it to ash.
Oren runs a bejeweled dagger down his palm and holds his hand over the fire to allow his blood to drip into it.
The fire changes color, going from a normal orange to bright white to a deep red and then to an unnatural black streaked with purple and white.
The leader closes the book and raises it over his head. He’s going to throw it into the fire, I realize. A foolish instinct to protect that worn tome takes over. I push myself up off the ground.
“No,” I whisper. “Please don’t.” The book is all I have left of the mother who loved me. It was the last gift from my father. None of the fae notice me standing atop the ridge. They’re all too focused on the man and the book.
He begins to move his arms; gravity is now in control.
“No!” I scream and charge forward.
The fae turn toward me. I would be frozen with fear if not for the momentum the slope of the ridge gives me.
I run, stumble, find my feet, and run again, arms pinwheeling; I lose my balance.
The man’s hands leave the book as I close the gap.
Everything happens with surreal slowness as the book falls through the air.
The female fae with the butterfly wings charges toward me, but the others seem too stunned to do anything.
I duck around the woman and lunge to grab the book before it can meet the flames, but my foot catches on a root.
My ankle twists and crunches, I try to stay upright, but it’s too late, I’m too off-balance.
How did I cover so much distance so fast?
How did I ever get this close to the fae?
Not that it matters, with the way I’m falling…
The man’s eyes widen. They’re a vibrant emerald shade, the same color as spring, as the rebirth of the earth itself—unnatural, stunning.
We lock gazes and my breath is stolen from me.
His terrifying beauty is the last thing I see before I fall into the flames, and the world explodes with white heat.